


Beringland

by Red



Category: Blake's 7, His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemon, Crossover, Daemons, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-01
Updated: 2011-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 02:03:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red/pseuds/Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the B7_Friday comm's "Our Heroes in Other Universes" challenge. Avon, Blake, and their daemons. These HDM AUs are a special sort of addiction...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beringland

It was an exercise in absurdity. The Magistrate had been in power for eons. These intercision facilities were commonplace, splicing man from daemon to make servile mutoids. Yet he let Blake talk him into risking his life to sabotage one factory in the frozen nothingness of Beringland. The others were stupid enough to go along with such a venture, but--

Another guard went down with a strangled noise, Eishara's teeth meeting in the daemon's neck. Avon smirked and kept running. It was not long before the subroutine he programmed overloaded the Maystadt device, and he preferred not to be present when it detonated.

Survival was strong enough motivation for everyone else, despite their willingness to concede to useless gestures of rebellion. Stannis and Gan had stayed with the craft. Cally and her hawk daemon were standing watch. Just as well--Avon had difficulty trusting anyone who sent her daemon so far afield, “ancient traditions of the Northern witches” be damned. And as he ran out into the blizzard, he was unsurprised to see Vila's tracks running up the mountain. If only to himself, Avon had to admit Vila did neat work—and moved quickly, given motivation. It had taken watching Vila break in the facility for Avon to realize he had never before seen Vila's daemon, an oddly-patterned rodent or marsupial, venturing outside of a pocket.

Avon dodged as Blake's daemon went for a guard, sprinting to an outcropping of rocks. Though Blake made it easily, Avon was not shocked to see he lacked the survival instincts of his crew, standing as the generators began emitting that high-pitched whine.

Throwing himself on Blake was foolish enough. But then, as though he had as little control of himself as the Magistrate's automatons, Avon reached to push that idiot cat's head down.

The blast roared over them, the shouts of guards and the growls of daemons echoed in the valley, and Avon was paralyzed. 'Ah,' he thought, as a feeling not unlike an anbaric shock ran up his arm, 'so perhaps there is a reason for childish superstitions.'

“Thank you,” Blake murmured. He seemed disconcertingly unperturbed, and for this reason alone Avon drew his hand back. The texture of the great cat's fur was burned into his fingertips.

“Automatic reaction,” he explained hastily, “I am as surprised as you are.”

“I'm not surprised.”

Avon pulled away sharply, standing between Eishara and Blake's daemon. “Idiot,” he said, as much to the jackal as to Blake, “I am not waiting for you to have us all killed.”

He turned abruptly. The remaining guards would soon find their trail, and Avon would be on Stannis' craft when they did.

The blizzard was picking up. As he stalked away, he could hear an annoyed “Avon.” With the howling of the wind, he could not tell who it was, Blake or one of the daemons.

He did not turn back. It was already difficult enough to follow Vila's solitary tracks up out of the valley.


End file.
